20. Valentina
Chapter 20
Valentina
O n the fifth day of our pastoral summer exile, Mamma and I go for a walk, as has become our routine since arrival. We don’t go too early in the morning, as one or both of us is usually sleeping off and then slowly caffeinating away the effects of too many drinks the day before. With nothing else to do besides swim, lie around in the sun, or watch old DVDs, eating random selections of cheese and meat and drinking wine all day has become one of our main pastimes.
That, and the walks.
Mamma insists on them, and I don’t have any real objections. It’s good to get off the property, to go back out into the world, even if going out into the world is just walking along the sunny, tree-lined beach road and then turning around and walking all the way back twenty minutes later.
As soon as we’re up and out of the driveway and on the road, Mamma is already ahead of me, pumping her arms, her hands in determined fists. She’s very into power walking and wants to work up as much of a sweat as possible. Something about toxins. Me, I’m already getting sweaty just walking at a normal speed in the battering humidity, so I keep my pace a little slower. Stopping to smell the roses and all that good stuff. Even if there aren’t any roses along the road. I’ll stop and smell the wild garlic and daisies, I guess.
It's all very meditative. Very zen. By the time I come back to the city, I swear I’m going to be a brand-new woman. A woman who’s forgotten all about Darragh Gowan.
Even if the forgetting part hasn’t quite happened yet.
But it will.
Because Mamma is off like an espresso-powered shot, she doesn’t notice what I notice today. That there’s a new vehicle parked at the cottage at the end of the road.
I stop walking and find myself squinting behind my oversized cat-eye sunglasses. I don’t know what sort of vehicle it is, but it’s big and shiny and very, very nice. It’s got hard, boxy lines, like it could take out an army tank all on its own, and the paint job is the most luxurious forest green I’ve ever seen.
I don’t think that’s Mr. Robinson’s car. He always drove a pick-up truck, and I learned that he recently passed away. Maybe it’s one of his kids’ vehicles. I think he had a daughter who lives in Alberta.
Curious, I walk in the opposite direction of Mamma, who’s already at least a hundred metres down the road. Gravel crunches and skitters beneath my white running shoes. The sun sinks into my hair like tattooed fingers.
No, not fingers. Like sunlight. Because that’s what it is. And if someone had their fingers buried in my hair recently it doesn’t fucking matter because I’ve already forgotten.
Annoyed, I pull my hair up into a big knot on the top of my head, tying it with a scrunchy. I haven’t bothered straightening or blow drying it since arriving here, and the thick, curly texture of it is out in full force. By the time my hair is secured, I’ve reached the circular driveway of Mr. Robinson’s place with the giant green vehicle. I don’t see anything else new or out of place. The beautiful stone mansion looks the same as it always has. Mr. Robinson’s boat is sitting on a metal dolly, ready to be hoisted down the tracks at the side of the house and into the water beyond.
Movement in one of the house’s upper story windows tears my attention from the boat. I peer upwards, but see nothing up there now but cloaking shadows, contrasting with the dreamy haze of sun drenching me now. If someone was in that room, it looks like they’re gone now. They don’t appear at another window, nor do they come downstairs to open their front door to say hello. Shrugging, I turn away and head back into the road.
I pass our own cottage, which is quiet, and then the next one, which isn’t. Music and squealing voices drift from the front of the house near the water. There are five people partying there this week. I’ve seen them drinking out on their dock and splashing around in the cold water. From what I’ve gathered, it seems to be two couples and a fifth guy who’s tagged along with them. I’ve noticed the fifth guy’s eyes on me a few times so far, when I’m tanning on our dock or swimming. But apart from responding politely to him when he grins and waves at me from across the water, I haven’t ventured into more of an interaction than that.
There’s something very isolating about hanging out with people who aren’t in the life. Who don’t come from the same world I do. I see that blonde guy, with his normal friends and his vacation time from his normal job and his easy, normal smiles, and I feel like we’re practically different species.
Plus, Papà would lose his ever-loving shit if I were sneaking away from Mamma’s somewhat spotty supervision to hang out with a random guy not in our family.
So when I hear the deep, masculine call of, “Hey, Sunglasses Girl!” coming from that property as I pass by, I pretend that I don’t hear it and keep on walking.
Mamma and I walk further down the beach than we usually do today. By the time we get back to our cottage, the sun is high in the sky and we’re both sweaty messes. Mamma opts for a shower, while I decide to swim instead. I take down my hair, remove my sunglasses, peel off my shorts, kick off my shoes and socks, then dive off the end of the dock.
The water, even in the height of summer’s heat, is intoxicatingly cold. Georgian Bay is so big it never really gets warm. If you’re lucky, you’ll see it just edge above 75 degrees Fahrenheit.
But I love it. I love how crystal clear the water is. There’s no mud, no clinging seaweed, no murkiness that makes me feel like something’s about to grab one of my kicking ankles from the deep. When I open my eyes beneath the water’s surface, I see transparent, sun-spangled blue all around me. The rocks from the beach continue along the bay’s floor, glittering stepping stones beneath the waves. There are random boulders out in the water, large enough that I can pull myself up onto them mermaid-style, even when the water is higher than my head.
I do that now, hauling my wet body up onto a big rock for a brief breather in the sun before diving back below again.
Exhaustion gets to me before the cold does. Limbs feeling wrung out and shaky, I climb up the ladder on the side of our dock and stand in the sun for a bit, wringing out my hair before tossing it over my shoulder. My bikini top is a bit wonky, so I adjust it. It’s a white bikini, and the cups covering my breasts are held together by a shiny red ribbon. The ribbon is dangerously close to coming undone and letting the bikini top fall open. It’s super cute, but I have to admit it’s a wildly impractical design. It’s far more suited to lounging around or taking sexy photos than it is for actually swimming.
I’m just tightening up the ribbon when my skin suddenly prickles. I tell myself it’s only the cold water evaporating off of me since I didn’t bring a towel to the dock, but I can’t shake a tingling dread that tells me someone’s watching me.
I assume it’s Mister Fifth Wheel from next door, but I don’t see anyone outside right now, and I didn’t notice him while I was swimming, either. For once, their music is off, and I don’t hear laughter, so they’ve probably gone into town for the afternoon.
The rest of the cottages down the line, with their massive lots, are dispersed so far apart along the curving beach that no one would be able to see me clearly.
Unless they were at the grey cottage.
With the trees between our properties, I can’t see much of Mr. Robinson’s place from our house. But out here on the dock, I can get a better view. Vaulting, angular windows in stony walls overlook the bay. But I don’t see anyone looking out of them.
Shivering, I tell myself I’m being stupid. I’m acting like there’s a ghost in there. I mean, I know our old neighbour just died, but I saw that snazzy new ride in the driveway. Pretty sure that ghosts don’t drive big, beautiful vehicles with paint jobs that gleam like crushed emeralds. A very real person with lots of very real money in the bank does.
Shaking off the feeling, I go get a towel inside and have a lunch comprised entirely of fermented things – a plate of cheese and a cold, crisp glass of pino grigio. I call out, asking Mamma if she wants any, but don’t get a response. She’s probably having an afternoon nap, which I have to admit sounds pretty good right now. But even if I could sleep, spending the rest of the afternoon inside the house feels too dreary. So, instead, I pour some more white wine into an insulated metal travel mug, then head back outside.
In a big shed beside our house, there’s an extra fridge and a bunch of cottagey stuff. One-handed, I grab a red and black tube by the hand and drag it out. It’s one of those inflated tubes you can tow behind a boat, but I don’t use it for that. I just like to float around on it in the water. It’s more solid and stable than the flimsier plastic floaties we have in here, the ones in cutesy shapes that make them look like unicorns or doughnuts with sprinkles. Plus, this one has a pretty solid cup holder that my travel mug of wine fits into perfectly.
I carefully drag the tube down the steep incline of rocks beside the dock and wade into the shallow water. Once I’m up to my knees, I plop myself into the tube and lean back, sighing as the sun hits my skin. I probably should have grabbed my sunglasses, but decide that I’m too lazy to get them off the dock, so instead I just sip my wine and float. The water isn’t too rough today. There are no big waves, just a gentle lapping, rhythmic in my ears. The rocking motion lulls me, and after a few minutes of basking in the sun, I put my cup into the cup holder and close my eyes.
When I open them again, all I see is blue.
Blue, blue sky, not a cloud in it.
And blue water.
Everywhere.
“Oh, shit.” Sitting up, I twist around, fighting disorientation as I take in my surroundings. The surroundings being water. Only water. In the distance the shoreline is a skinny string of grey and green, so far away I can’t even tell if one of those tiny dots is our cottage or not.
Fuck me. I could be a kilometre from shore by now, if not more. I’m a decent swimmer, but not good enough to swim all the way back to the shore, especially if I try to bring the tube along with me. And considering I have no life jacket, keeping my only available floatation device within reach seems like a very good idea.
At least I’ve got my wine , I think wryly to myself, shaking my head at my own stupidity. I didn’t think I’d fall asleep that fast. I certainly didn’t think I’d end up all the way out in the middle of the goddamn bay that quickly. Note to self, next time use something as a freaking anchor. Or at least have your phone with you! Not that it would be much use with how crappy the service is out here, but still.
Holding tight to the tube’s handles, I crane my neck to get a sense if there’s anyone I can flag down for help. Nearly as far from me as the shore is bobs a sailboat, but I doubt they’ve noticed me. The rumbling of an engine tells me someone’s starting up a jet ski or a boat somewhere, and I can only hope that they might see me if they come close enough.
I suppose I could always pull off my white bikini top and wave it as a sort of SOS signal. Hopefully, between the visible white flag of the material flapping in the wind and my naked boobs hanging out, I’ll get somebody’s attention.
It's mostly a joke that I tell myself, but I don’t discount the idea completely. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to be stuck bobbing around out here by the time night falls. I don’t burn easily, but I can already feel a creeping heat along my cheekbones, shoulders, and chest. Not to mention how cold it will get once the sun goes down.
The engine of whatever craft started up is getting louder. Between the far-off shore and me, I see a slicing arrow of teal and white. It’s a boat, tiny at this distance, but getting bigger every time it crests a wave. It looks like it’s aimed itself straight out into the water.
It’s aimed itself right at me.
“Oh, thank fuck,” I say on a shaky exhale. I lift my arms and start waving at the approaching boat, just on the off chance that maybe they haven’t actually seen me.
But they have to have seen me. There’s no doubt about their path now. The boat hasn’t wavered at all. It just keeps cutting through the waves towards me.
Only, for some strange reason, I find my relief evaporating the closer the vessel comes. Something cold and ominous clutches at my belly as the boat finally gets fully into view and starts to slow down. When it draws level with me, the engine cuts.
I know even less about boats than I do about cars, but this one is long and sleek, mostly white with silver and turquoise accents. The whole top is open to the air, with plush white seats gleaming in the sun. Most of the seats are empty. The only one that’s occupied is the driver’s seat.
“Stranded, little siren?”
Darragh’s huge body lounges in the driver’s seat of the boat, one arm propped against the back of his seat as he watches me over the side of the boat, the other languorously draped over the steering wheel. His hair is tousled from the whipping wind on the drive over here, little reddish bits falling forward into his piercing brown and green eyes. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him shirtless, and my gaze trips and snags on each hard plane of muscle, each inked line of his tattoos that stretch and twist from arm to shoulder, shoulder to chest, chest to abdomen. Abdomen to the low-slung waistband of his pale blue jeans.
I don’t bother asking him what he’s doing here the way I did last time at the club. I know I’m not going to get a satisfactory answer. Somehow, this man has the power to appear everywhere I am, to show up when I least expect it, and the more shock and unease I show him over this fact, the more vulnerable I’ll be.
So instead, I just pretend it’s the most natural thing in the world that I’m stuck out here in the middle of the bay and that he’s the one to find me. Tipping up my chin I say, “Nope, not stranded, thanks.”
A crooked smirk tugs at Darragh’s lips, as if that’s exactly what he expected me to say. The expression draws my gaze to his mouth, where I see a red mark just below his lower lip.
The place I bit him.
My stomach jolts, a hot spasm going from my belly to the place between my legs.
Darragh peels himself out of the driver’s seat, stands, and grips the edge of the boat, leaning over the side towards me. The slight smirk is still there, but there’s no laughter in his eyes. No, his gaze is all roiling hunger, all heat. Demanding. Predatory. I’m extra glad I didn’t do the bikini-top-flag-thing now, because even wearing my bathing suit, I feel tremendously exposed before him.
“Get in the boat.”
Four little words. Four corresponding slams of my heart against my ribs.
What would be more dangerous? To stay out here and pray that somebody else comes along to find me?
Or to voluntarily get into that boat with Darragh Gowan?
And what about the considerations beyond the simple dangers of the situation? What about the fact that I promised myself mere days ago that I would never willingly set foot anywhere that Darragh was? What about the fact that every time I obey one of his insane commands, I feel a little bit more of myself slip away. It’s like he’s cracking my defenses open with his bare hands and pulling the individual strands of my soul out, one by one.
“No,” I say, forcing myself to relax back against the sun-warmed surface of the tube. “I’m good.” I take my cup from the cup holder and take a long, lazy sip of wine, as if to prove just how fine I am.
Darragh watches me with silent, wolfish intensity. Then, he straightens with a suddenness that nearly makes me drop my wine. His smirk stretches into an ominous grin. He turns away from me briefly and bends down.
When he turns back to me, he’s holding a wooden oar.
For a terrible, time-stopping moment, I think he’s about to bash my brains in with it.
I shove my cup into the cupholder and twist away from him, covering my head with my arms as the oar comes down.
But it doesn’t hit me. Darragh has spun the oar around so that he’s holding the paddle part, and he hooks the long wooden shaft into the tube’s handle. His bare arms flex, muscles jumping beneath ink.
He’s reeling me in.
“Get off!” I cry, kicking at the oar’s handle. “I am not getting in that boat!”
“Noted,” Darragh grunts as he gives one final yank. Before I can try to kick or push off the side of the boat and away from him, he’s snatched back the oar and replaced it with his own hand. Strong fingers seize on the tube’s handle.
And then, a metal clip snaps into place on a loop of fabric between my feet. That metal clip is attached to a rope.
A rope that Darragh is now hooking onto a metal rod on the back of his boat.
Oh, hell no. He is not going to tow me to shore like some broken-down piece of –
That thought gets whipped right out of my head as Darragh starts the boat’s engine and takes off. The rope goes taut, and soon it’s all I can do to hold on for dear life as Darragh carts me over the waves. I swallow back a shriek, scrabbling for purchase on the tube’s handles, my body bouncing like a ragdoll’s. At this speed, the waves we hit feel like stone walls. My knuckles scream with tension as I grip the handles. My teeth clatter. My ass, thighs, and back feel like they’re on fire from the chafing of the tube’s seam.
I cannot believe that people actually do this shit for fun.
Maybe it is fun, when the driver isn’t a fucking maniac.
I’m oriented so that I’m facing the back of the boat. Darragh looks so at ease, so in control – relaxed, even – in his seat.
He doesn’t look back once. I could bounce right off and he wouldn’t even know.
Maybe I should try to jump. It would have to be better than this bullshit. But the water, when it hits me, is like freezing, jagged glass. The thought of pitching my entire body into it at this speed is a chilling one.
So I suck it up and hold on tight until the boat finally slows down. Once I’m not completely focused on not falling off the tube, I become aware enough of my surroundings to see that Darragh is approaching the waterfront in front of my cottage.
Of course. Of course, he knows which one is ours.
Although, he doesn’t pull the boat up to our dock.
He pulls up to Mr. Robinson’s. While Darragh is busy tying another length of rope to an anvil-shaped hunk of metal on the dock, I take the opportunity to slither out of the tube. I can’t hop out like I normally would. My legs are shaking too badly from the tension of that ride. Even now, my muscles are locking up involuntarily as I slowly wade out of the water, half dragging, half leaning on the tube as I go.
By the time I’m all the way out of the water and standing on the rocky shore with the tube at my feet, Darragh has hauled himself onto the dock.
“You’re trespassing, you know,” I tell him peevishly as I unhook the metal clasp from the loop on the tube.
“Don’t count on it, pet,” Darragh shoots back blithely. “The dock came with the house.”
I go still, bent over, one hand on the tube, the other on the metal clasp. Slowly, I release them both and straighten up. Darragh walks up the remaining length of the dock, then jumps down, crunching over rocks until he stands before me. I shiver in my cold, damp swimsuit, and before I can stop myself, I wonder how hot the surface of his skin might be against mine.
“So you’re saying that you bought this place?”
“Well, I didn’t win it in a hand of cards, now did I?”
“How the hell would I know?” I snap. “What, out of all the cottages and vacation properties in the country, you had to pick this one?”
Darragh’s jaw tightens.
“What I had to do,” he growls, taking another step towards me, “was get some fucking sleep.”
What that’s supposed to mean is anyone’s guess. Darragh isn’t exactly known for his mental stability, so I ignore his bizarre comment about sleep.
“Well, what I’ve got to do,” I say, “is go put some fucking aloe on the welts all over my back and thighs. Thanks for that, by the way,” I mutter.
Darragh’s gaze tightens to hardened slits. His eyes drag down my front, and I can feel every hair on my body rise in response. He lifts a tattooed hand, extends his index finger downwards, then swirls it, as if he’s stirring a drink and his finger is the spoon.
“Turn around.”
“Fuck you.”
Darragh inhales sharply, then appears to run his tongue along his teeth. His tongue comes out briefly to prod at the red place where I bit him.
Then, he’s moving.
He’s at my back before I can stop him. I try to spin so that I can keep him in my sights, but he grabs a fistful of my hair, right at the nape of my neck, and pins me in place.
The knuckles of his other hand go to the sensitive place between my shoulder blades. Agonizingly slowly, they skate down my spine.
My skin explodes with sensation, as if every single nerve in my body is suddenly concentrated along the line Darragh’s knuckles trace down my back. Unlike the unforgiving iron of his right hand’s hold on my hair, his left hand moves lightly, a rough whisper against my flesh.
When he gets to the chapped place where the tube chafed me, just below the tie of my bathing suit, I flinch and make a small sound. Darragh’s knuckles instantly stop moving, then draw away. When his touch returns a heartbeat later, it’s the calloused surface of his thumb. His thumb slides back and forth along the painful red line on my back while his fingers splay along the side of my ribcage. It’s blisteringly uncomfortable, to have him touching that raw and tender place.
And for some horrific reason, I don’t want him to stop.
As Darragh’s thumb runs back and forth, his index finger slips beneath the wet fabric of my bathing suit. And suddenly, my whole body is screaming with the memory of how lethally good it felt when he dragged his demanding touch across my nipples when he was kissing me. So good that my body terrified me with its own response, arching against him without me even telling it to.
So good that I’m flooded now with the haunting ache of treacherous need.
Darragh pulls his hands away. His voice is as sharp as the rocks beneath my bare feet when he bites out, “You’ll live.”
“Like you care,” I snap, whirling around to face him. I throw anger between us like a wall, like a shield. Anger is easy. It’s familiar. And it feels so much safer than confronting the wicked throbbing between my legs, the prickling swell of my nipples. “I could have fallen off that tube and drowned at any time and you wouldn’t have even known. You didn’t even turn back to look at me once!”
Jesus, I sound absolutely pathetic. I meant to accuse him of callous cruelty, but instead I just sound like I’m complaining that he wasn’t paying enough attention to me.
I don’t even know why I bother. Darragh is callous. He is cruel. None of this is new information. To either of us.
But for some reason, it looks like my words actually affect him. His jaw works, and his hand jabs forward, fast as a punch. He hooks his fingers beneath the red ribbon tied in a bow between my breasts and pulls hard. I stumble forward until I crash against his front. His skin is even warmer than I could have imagined.
“I know that you don’t typically like to think before you speak,” Darragh hisses against my temple. “But how about you take a look at the front of that fucking boat before you spout off more bullshit in front of me.”
He gives my bathing suit one more vicious tug before he releases me and retreats. He stares at me with hate etched along his jaw. His forearms flex, his hands in fists. He’s looking at me like he almost wishes he left me out there on the water.
“Go home, pet. Go home, like the good little girl that you are. Before your mamma knows you’re gone.”
Rage simmers in my blood as Darragh turns away from me and walks up the rocky incline. He crosses the lawn and then disappears into the grey stone house.
He really must own this place now.
There goes the fucking neighbourhood.
Muttering and swearing to myself, I stomp as much as the rocks beneath my feet will let me and go to retrieve my tube. As I do so, something bright and shiny catches my eye, drawing my attention to the front area of the boat.
I didn’t notice it before. But there, directly in front of the driver’s seat and giving Darragh a perfect view of the back of the boat – and a perfect view of any stupid girl he might deign to tow on a tube behind it – is a mirror.
He could see me the entire fucking time.
I don’t know if I should feel comforted or unnerved by that fact. I settle on a bitter sort of neutrality, a lack of caring that feels just a little bit too forced.
But I have to not care. I have to find some sort of distance. Because if I let myself fall into the pit of anxiously examining every little thing Darragh does to me, I may never crawl my way back out.
I bend over to grasp my tube’s handle so I can pull it home. It’s only then, when my swimsuit top suddenly shifts and flops open, that I realize Darragh has just stolen my red ribbon.